


Last Dance of Martha Sissons

by fresne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Pre-Series, Recreational Drug Use, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the night before the best day of her life. The last night she'd dance as Martha Sissons. </p><p>Margaret, her best friend, kept saying it was the end of an era. She didn't even mean it in an ironic way, which was sometimes hard to tell with Margaret. Being as she was clever enough to get a degree in women and write a book about dancing in the clubs.</p><p>Margaret was right. Getting married changes things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Dance of Martha Sissons

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came from a discussion of changing polling on [Reading 221](http://reading221b.livejournal.com/23381.html) for nominating less common pairings in the Sherlock fandom. I randomly posted a desire for a fic like this, and then as sometimes happens in fandom, it occurred to me that perhaps I should just write it. 
> 
> It came off a bit more sad than I'd expected, but so goes bittersweet flings with besties.

"My offer's still open," said Margaret, adding more spray to keep the strands of her union jack coloured hair spiked straight up. "Jeffy at the car rental down in Tottenam has always had a thing for me. I give him a ten minute lap dance and we could be driving away five minutes later. You don't have to go through with this. Thirty-three is not that old."

Martha huffed a laugh, although the joke had stopped being funny the first dozen times Margaret had told it. As if Martha would run off and leave her Frank when their wedding day was just a day away and he'd apologized so sweetly after he'd gotten so angry last night. Martha realized she was rubbing her arm and stopped, because it hardly hurt at all. Anyway, she wasn't leaving. She loved Frank. What with Frank sweeping her off her feet just six months ago. Slipping his phone number in her thong first time he'd come to the club with that wicked smile of his and such a gentleman, making sure to bring her off before he came when they'd done it in the alley out back after their third date. She'd chucked her dump of a flat and moved in with him three weeks later. He was a real catch, someone to have children with and be by her side, and he'd gone down on one knee to ask her to marry him, and she wasn't getting any younger. None of them were. 

Martha snapped the final closures on her powder blue Thatcher costume on the thought of leaving Frank.

"It's going to be the end of an era." Margaret looked pointedly at Martha's arm where the bruises were now covered in blue polyester. Martha had told Margaret that Frank had just gotten a little enthusiastic. Margaret clicked her tongue stud against her teeth in that familiar click. Her hand was warm on Martha's shoulder, even through the cloth. We could be in Glasgow by tomorrow. I've got friends there who'd put us up. 

Martha opened her mouth to reply, but Tommy leaned in the door. "Shut your yobs and get your arses out there. Martha, this may be your last day, but you're still on the clock." 

Margaret snapped on her Sex Pistols shirt and repeated. "It's going to be the end of an era." She had been saying that almost as often as she'd offered to run off with Martha.

"We'll always be the best of mates," said Martha. Because nothing was going to change between them. Margaret had finished her first book ages ago, and that hadn't changed anything. The book was the reason she'd started dancing almost ten years ago, when she'd been getting that degree in women's studies, and imagine that, Margaret was clever enough to get a degree in women. Even if her first and second books hadn't set the world on fire, the next one would do it. Margaret would be famous, and Martha would go on and get married and have a lovely life and it wasn't going to change anything. 

They really did need to get out there though.

Their cue played Rule Britannia, and they went out on stage. Margaret was Nasty Labour who stripped the Iron Lady to her steel grey thong. Martha as the Iron Lady returned the favour to the cheers of the thin afternoon crowd. The point was a little lost on the group of German tourists, but Margaret had always put a lot of thought into their routines. She'd even bought the soft cat-of-nine tails herself for when Nasty Labour turned the whip on the Iron Lady. It actually felt quite lovely. 

Martha did not wince as she made her signature hip roll. She was still sore Frank's enthusiasm. Her eyes did not take ever so tiny a look to see that Frank wasn't in the audience, because he really shouldn't see her before the wedding and there was no reason to look. He was out with his mates at a completely different club. Starting his stag night early.

Martha did a couple of brass monkeys and one Peter Pan around the pole. She did not look. She and Margaret did a few more choreographed moves together. Did a tour of the stage edge. Picked up some quid. Finished their number and that was it. Martha Sissons' last dance.

She collected her last check. Counted up her tips. Cleaned up. Put on the frock she'd had hanging next to all the spangles all afternoon. Margaret put on a dress made out of a camouflage print parachute that was almost pretty. Especially, if Martha didn't focus on where Margaret had scrawled, "War Pigs taste good!" on the cloth.

Martha gave her Saint George speech to the dressing room. "I need a drink." 

Evie called out, "Here, here!", but Margaret really was her best friend. She'd already gotten Vic at the bar to mix her a Vesper, just like Martha liked. The cold liquid coated calm down her throat. 

She stopped that thought, because that was a ridiculous thought. She was calm. This was her last night with the girls before she became a Mrs. Before the best day of her life. The next time she had sex, it would be as Mrs. Frank Hudson. Though Margaret had a rant about women changing their name for marriage, but then again Margaret was never getting married. 

Margaret said, standing so close Martha felt the words, "My offer stands."

Martha downed her drink in reply, but she squeezed Margaret's hand. She was such a good friend.

They met up with the rest of the girls at Volcano Joe's. A dozen of her best mates from the clubs where she'd worked. They split a Virgin Sacrifice bowl with the sugar cube burning merrily in the centre. Penny and Trisha kept making jokes about virgins and sausages. Margaret crushed those jokes by saying it was ages too late for that and something about the kyriarchy. 

Martha giggled. Margaret was funny. When she finished her next book, it was going to be a best seller and Martha would be a part of it. Just like she'd been a part of the first one. That was funny. She told Margaret this while slurping on her straw, which somehow ended up with everyone in a sucking contest and the Virgin Sacrifice was done for. 

They had a few herbals that Kelly had brought. The MJ was French. Martha loved France. She and Margaret had done a package tour to the south of France a few years ago and it had been lovely. A few of the girls went to the bathroom to do some lines, but not Martha. She didn't like the way the White Pony made her feel. She'd stick to lovely alcohol.

Martha had a Jet Pilot because she was going to Barbados on a jet plane. She downed it fast and yelled over the din, "I want to dance." 

Margaret yelled back, "You always want to dance. It's the end of an era," and then for some reason, "Fuck the patriarchy!" 

Martha didn't know why. Martha did not care. She cared that they made their way to the Red Room where they were playing that new Queen song and she wanted to dance. She wanted a kind of magic. She and Margaret ground against each other for free. She giggled into Margaret's ear, "We're making the boys so sad."

Margaret wrapped her arms around her and mumbled into her ear, "Too bad." Margaret was sweaty, but Martha didn't mind. Margaret always had her back.

Penny yelled something. A Martini appeared in Martha's hand. She practiced her club dancing. She might have gotten a little on her dress. Most of it, but it was clear, so it didn't matter. Waste of perfectly good liquor though. Margaret dried her off with a fold of her dress. The fabric was soft and slick. Martha leaned forward so Margaret could get it all.

They tottered out on thin heels or in Margaret's case stomped in battered boots up the street to the Imperial. All wood panelled elegance. They giggled their way through a gin or two. They lost the girls one by one. Penny had to work the late shift at the club later. They lost Tina when they went to the Ozymandius for more dancing. Everything was spinning beautifully and the world was lovely. 

Margaret was still there. Arm slung around her waist for balance. Margaret was her AFA. A friend always. She told her that as they stumbled out into the street when they closed the Ozymandius down at the end of the night, just like they'd done when they were younger. Nothing for it but to go back to Margaret's and keep the party going.

Margaret dossed in a somewhat abandoned Georgian with a group of likeminded punks, who'd changed the locks and setup house there. Lovely people. They always had good drinks and herbals. Martha toasted the picture of Queen Elizabeth next to the ironic anti-disestashblishmentarianism mural in the front room. Margaret grabbed a bottle of gin and some water, and they made their way up to Margaret's room on the third floor. There was nowhere to sit except the mattress on the floor and nothing to lean up against Margaret. Warm and solid next to her.

Margaret leaned her head against Martha's. "It's the end of an era." Martha felt the soft brush of Margaret's breath on her shoulder.

Margaret sounded so sad. It was only natural that Martha put down her drink and pressed her lips to Margaret's, who sighed and sagged into her. Martha blinked and Margaret had slid down the straps on Martha's dress. She lapped at Martha's breasts like the sweetest little kitten. The spikes of her bobbing as she licked. Martha closed her eyes and enjoyed how it felt, but she felt guilty. She wasn't doing anything for Margaret.

Martha pushed up the skirt of Margaret's dress. She slid her fingers up into Margaret's sweet little pussy, warm and wet for her. Margaret gasped hot breath cool on Martha's wet nipple. "Do you like that?" whispered Martha. 

Margaret's teeth grazed Martha's right nipple. "I love everything you do. I always have." Heat bloomed in Martha's heart.

They curled around each other on the mattress. Margaret sucking a sweet bruise in time to the scissoring of Martha's fingers. Gasping as time oozed around them like freezer cold gin. As Martha switched to pushing her thumb in Margaret's sweet little pussy while giving her backside a little love with her index. Margaret whined and twisted against her. Her cries sharp in the dark. Like that bullwhip from that Spanish trick number they'd done years ago.

Martha blinked and Margaret was kissing the spot just above her own pussy and she wouldn't have thought that could feel so good. Had never imagined that tongue stud lapping at her pussy. Had never imagined the feeling of playing with the delicate ring of piercings in Margaret's ears. Had never thought about the soft swell of Margaret's pert little breasts against her own. Had never imagined how her own voice would sound in the dark while someone in the next room over turned up the volume on a stereo. Someone was screaming about God being dead while Martha screamed, "Oh, God." 

One orgasm rolled into another and time oozed around them. Martha blinked. Hands on hips. Soft skin sliding against skin. Breasts rubbed against breasts. 

Martha blinked.

It was morning and she desperately needed some paracetamol. She groaned as she looked at Margaret passed out naked next to her. Even her hair was wilted.

Martha shakily pushed herself to her feet and into last night's dress. Her mouth was furry and something was stabbing her with a needle inside her head. She blamed the gin for everything. She had a swig of last night's gin and was halfway to the hotel where she ought to have ended up last night. 

Either that or gone home and never mind it being bad luck to see Frank before the wedding. The night before her wedding.

There were slightly wilted flowers waiting at the front desk and a note from Frank. He was sorry about their argument. He couldn't wait to see her. Martha's hand was in front of her mouth the entire time she read the note. She asked three times if Frank had been by that morning, but he hadn't. That was good. It would be bad luck. She took her flowers to her room. She stared at herself naked in a mirror. There was as red and yellow bruise on her breast from where Margaret had marked her the night before. 

Martha covered it with her hand. The blotched bruises on her arm only stood out more that way. 

She pulled her wedding dress out of the closet along with an iron and an ironing board. She ironed the wedding dress that she'd bought with Margaret. Even though Margaret knew next to nothing about clothes. Even though she'd kept saying that Martha should buy a black dress and kept going on about it being the end of an era.

Such a pretty dress in cream silk with a full skirt that made her think of Princess Di if not nearly as long. A dress fit for a princess. This was the most beautiful day of her life. This was the most wonderful day of her life. 

Martha stared at the iron. The bruise on her breast aching over her heart. She did it before she could think about it too much. Pressed the flat of the iron to her breast. A few horrible seconds and it was done. Now she had a burn not a bruise. She practiced her silly smile and the story she'd tell about trying to iron her dress with herself in it. Silly Martha. 

She just about had it right when Margaret showed up. 

Martha didn't give her a chance to talk. She set up a steady stream of babble about the wedding and how they needed to hurry and was soon saved by the rest of the girls showing up and there was everyone's perms to be fluffed and sprayed and makeup to be done and nails and they were late, but brides were supposed to be late. They supposed to be pale. It was natural to feel sick after the night before she'd had.

It seemed like Martha blinked and she was at the church where neither she or Frank went, but there was the minister saying words over them and Martha said, "I do," and Margaret stood next to her clutching flowers and saying nothing when the Minister asked if there were any impediments to this marriage. 

The reception was lovely. Billy, Frank's best man, gave a lovely speech full of jokes about exotic dancers.

Martha clutched her wine glass dreading the moment when it was time for Margaret to get up for her speech. 

Margaret wobbled out into the middle of all the tables in the heels that Martha had insisted she wear. She said, "This wedding marks the end of an era." She closed her mouth with a click. She nodded her head a few times. "I asked Martha to run away with me if she wasn't sure." She spread a sort of smile on her face. "Since she's sitting next to Frank, she must be sure. Frank, you're a lucky man. You take good care of our Martha. She bruises more easily than you'd think." She raised her glass to them. "To the bride." 

Everyone covered their discomfort by drinking.

Martha certainly did.

Margaret went back to the table, only to pick up her coat and right there in the middle of the reception, she left. 

Billy said, "She on the rag or what?"

Frank laughed. "Nah, she's always been a right bitch. Can't stand me. Don't know what you see in her, Martha. Better off if you start spending your time with a better crowd, now that you're my wife and all."

Martha coughed and had more champagne. She blinked and the night was over. She blinked and she was going upstairs to her room. Their room. Her and Frank's. She winced as he touched the bandage on her breast. She babbled out her story about ironing with her dress on. 

Frank said, "Poor you." He insisted on peeling off the bandage for a better look and tisked over the burn. She told herself she was exactly where she wanted to be as she kissed him and they had married sex. She made sure it was good for him. She made sure it was good for her husband. She loved him and he'd asked her to marry him on bended knees.

She told herself everything was different. She reminded herself that several times on her honeymoon. Barbados was lovely. Frank was lovely. He had to leave her a few times because the import export business never took time off. 

If when she came back, she didn't call Margaret at the club, that wasn't because of anything. They were still best friends. Margaret was still her friend always. Martha bustled around her and Frank's flat. 

She bustled. The burn healed. 

She always had a chilled drink ready for Frank when he came home, and made one for herself as well. They were married. They shared.

She had the girls over for drinks at the flat. Margaret came, but she didn't say much. There were awkward spaces in their silences.

It was almost a relief when Frank's job meant they had to move to Florida. Still Martha kept looking Margaret's next book any time she passed a book store. When she did find it, she stood in the brightly lit aisles reading it. She pressed her fingers to the dedication, which simply read, "To Martha, my A.F.A. Out of sight. Not out of mind."

She didn't buy it, of course. It wouldn't do for Frank to see it. Still it was lovely to see, and when she had to go to the hospital on account of falling down the stairs and injuring her hip, she gave one of the nurses some money and asked her to bring her a copy. Martha kept it under her pillow. 

There wasn't room for it on the side table with all the flowers Frank brought her.

He joked about her dancing days being over and held her hand in his. She could hardly see her hand, his hands were so much bigger. 

She closed her eyes and breathed in the thick scent of flowers, and wondered if they would last.

**Author's Note:**

> If after reading my fiction here, you would like to read more about me and my writing check out my profile.


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